Black Leopard, Red Wolf (Dark Star Trilogy)

by Marlon James

  “Yesterday you wer—”

  “Kwesi!” his arrow boy shouted, and dropped the basket he was carrying. Maybe I did forget his name out of spite. He came over to the table, not looking or even nodding at me.

  “You are not well enough to be eating strange things,” he said to the Leopard.

  “Here is meat and here is bone. Nothing is strange.”

  “Go back to the room.”

  “I am well.”

  “You are not.”

  “Are you deaf?” I said. “He said he is well.”

  Fumeli tried to glare at me and fuss over the Leopard with the same face, but it came out as him fussing a little over me and glaring a little at the Leopard. Even when it was not funny, this boy provoked me to laugh. He stomped off, grabbing his basket on the way out. One of his little parcels fell out. Cured pig, I could smell it. Supplies. The Leopard sat down on the table and crossed his legs.

  “I should lose him soon.”

  “You should have lost him moons ago,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Leopard. There are things I must tell you. Not here. I do not trust these walls. Truly there are some strange things here.”

  “You’ve said this four times now. Why is everything strange, friend?”

  “The black puddle woman.”

  “It’s these statues that bother me. I feel like an army is going to watch me fuck at night.”

  He grabbed one of the statues by the neck, and grinned that wide smile I couldn’t remember when last I saw.

  “This one the most,” he said.

  “Grab your bird,” I said.

  We wrapped our waists in cloths and walked south to Gallunkobe/Matyube. The freemen and slave quarter, also the poorest, except for vulgar houses that spread wide instead of tall for freemen with much coin, but no noble air. Most of the houses were one room or hall, and packed so tight that they shared the same roof. Not even a rat could squeeze between each wall. The towers and roofs of the Nyembe quarter made it look like a huge fort or a castle, but no towers rose in this quarter. Freemen and slaves had no need to watch anyone, but everyone needed to watch them. And despite having the most men and women sleeping there at night, by day it was the emptiest quarter, freemen and slaves at work in the other three.

  “When did Bunshi tell you such a story?”

  “When? Good cat, you were there.”

  “I was? I don’t … yes I do remember … memory comes forth, then slips away.”

  “Memory must be one of them who heard what you do in bed.”

  He chuckled.

  “But, Tracker, I remember it as if somebody told me, not as if I was there. I have no smell of it. So strange.”

  “Yes, strange. Whatever that Fumeli makes you smoke, stop smoking such.”

  I was happy to talk to the Leopard, as I always am, and I did not want to bring up the sourness of the days past—one moon past, a fact that staggered him every time I said it. I think I know why. Time is flat to all animals; they measure it in when to eat, when to sleep, when to breed, so missed time to him feels a board with a huge hole punched out.

  “The slaver said the boy was his partner’s son, now an orphan. Men kidnapped the boy from his housekeeper and murdered all others in that house. Then he said the house belonged to his aunt, not his housekeeper. Then we saw him and Nsaka Ne Vampi try to pry information out of the lightning girl, who we set free but then she jumped off a cliff and landed in Nyka’s cage.”

  “You tell me things I know. Everything but this lightning woman in the cage. And I remember thinking for sure this slaver lies, but not about what.”

  “Leopard, that was when Bunshi poured herself down the wall and said the boy was not that boy, but another who was the son of Basu Fumanguru, who was an elder, and on the Night of the Skulls the Omoluzu attacked the house and killed everyone but the boy who was then a baby and who Bunshi hid in her womb to save him, but then she took him to a blind woman in Mitu who she thought she could trust, but the blind woman sold him to a slave market where a merchant bought him, perhaps for his barren wife, but then they were attacked by men of malicious means. A hunter took the boy and now none can find him.”

  “Slow, good friend. None of this I remember.”

  “And that is not all, Leopard, for I found another elder, who called himself Belekun the Big, who said the family died of river sickness, which was false, but the family was eight, which was true, and of it six were sons and none were just born.”

  “What are you saying, Tracker?”

  “Do you not remember when I told you this on the lake?”

  The Leopard shook his head.

  “Belekun was always liar and I had to kill him, especially when he tried to kill me. But he had no reason to lie about this, so Bunshi must have. Yes, Omoluzu killed Basu Fumanguru’s family, and yes, many know this including her, but that the boy we seek was not his son as he had no young sons.”

  The Leopard still looked confused. But he raised his brow as if a truth suddenly struck him.

  “But, Leopard,” I continued, “I have done some looking and some digging and somebody here in this city also asks of Fumanguru, meaning they asked to be told if somebody asks, which means the closed matter of the dead elder is not so closed, because one thing remains open, this missing boy who is not his son, and though he may not be his son, he is the reason why others search for him and why we search for him and given that Fumanguru was an annoyance but not a real enemy of the King, whoever sent roof walkers to his house was not there to kill the family but was there for the boy, who Fumanguru must have been protecting. They too know he is alive.”

  I told the Leopard all this and this is truth, I was more confused by the telling than he was by listening. Only when he repeated all that I said did I understand it. We were still ankle deep in the water when he said, “You know this buffalo stands behind us as we speak.”

  “I know.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “He looks like a trustworthy beast.”

  “If he lies, I will bring him down with my jaws and make supper out of him.”

  The buffalo snorted and started kicking up his right front leg in the water.

  “He jests,” I said to the buffalo.

  “A little,” the Leopard said. “To this man’s house with us. These robes make my balls itch.”

  Sadogo sat on the floor in his room, punching his left palm with his right hand and setting off sparks. I stepped into the doorway and stayed there. He saw me.

  “There he was. I grabbed his neck and squeezed until his head popped off. And her, her too, I swung this hand, this I hold up right here and slapped her so hard that I broke her neck. Soon the masters would gather seats and men and women who paid cowrie, and corn, and cows to watch me execute women, and children, and men with my hands. Soon they built seats in a circle and charged money and cast bets. Not for who would best me, for no man can ever best an Ogo. But for who would last longest. The children their necks I breaked quick so they would not suffer. This made them mad—who would watch, for they must have it, don’t you see? Don’t you see, they must have show. Curse the gods and fuck them all in the ears and ass, they will have a show, that is what I tell you.”

  I knew what would happen. I left the Ogo. He would be talking all night, no matter the misery such talk caused him. Part of me wanted to give him ears, for there was depth there, things he had done that he buried wherever Ogos bury their dead. The Leopard was already grabbing his crotch when he went in the room with Fumeli. Sogolon was gone, and so was the girl and the lord of the house. I wanted to go to Fumanguru’s home, but did not want to go alone.

  There was nothing to do but wait on the Leopard. Down the stairs, night crept up without me even seeing it. Kongor plays as a righteous city under sunlight, but turns into what all righteous cities turn into under the dark. Fires lit up patches of the sky, from the Bingingun far off. Drums at times jumped over roofs, and above the road, and sh
ook our windows, while lutes, flute, and horns sneaked in under. I did not see a single man in Bingingun all day. I went out the window and sat in the sill, looking across to rooms with flickering lights, few, and rooms already dark, many. Fumeli, wearing a rug, walked past me carrying a lamp. He returned shortly after, passing me again carrying a wineskin. I followed him, ten and two or so paces behind. He left the door open.

  “Grab your bow, or at least a good sword. No, make it daggers, we go with daggers,” I said.

  The Leopard rolled around in the bed. On his back he snatched the wineskin from Fumeli, who did not look at me.

  “You drink palm wine now?”

  “I’ll drink blood if I wish,” he said.

  “Leopard, time is not something we have to lose. Kwesi.”

  “Fumeli, tell me this. Is it ill wind blowing under that window, or is it you speaking in a tone that sours me?”

  Fumeli laughed quiet.

  “Leopard, what is this?”

  “What is this indeed? What is this? What is this, Tracker? What. Is. This?”

  “This is about the house of the boy. The house that we are going to visit. The house that might tell us where he went.”

  “We know where he’s gone. Nyka and that bitch of his already found him.”

  “How do you know? Some drums told you? Or a little whore whispered something before sunset?”

  A growl, but from Fumeli, not him.

  “I go to only one place, Tracker. I go to sleep.”

  “You plan to find him in dreams? Or maybe you plan to send your little maiden here.”

  “Get out,” Fumeli said.

  “No no no. You do not speak to me. And I only speak to him.”

  “And if the him is me, then I say, you don’t speak to him or me,” the Leopard said.

  “Leopard, are you mad or is this some game to you? Are there two children in this room?”

  “I’m not a chil—”

  “Shut up, boy, by all the gods I’ll—”

  The Leopard jumped up. “By all the gods you will … what?”

  “What is this relapse? First you are hot then you are cold, you are one thing, and then you are another. Is this little bitch bewitching you? I don’t care. We go now and argue later.”

  “We leave tomorrow.”

  The Leopard walked over to the window. Fumeli sat up in the bed, stealing looks at me.

  “Oh. So we are in these waters again,” I said.

  “How funny you talk,” Fumeli said. In my mind my hands were at his throat.

  “Yes. In those waters, as you’ve said. We go our own way to find the boy tomorrow. Or we don’t. Either way we leave here,” the Leopard said.

  “I told you about the boy. Why we need to find—”

  “You tell me many things, Tracker. Not much of it any use. Now please go where you came from.”

  “No. I will find what is this madness.”

  “Madness, Tracker, is you thinking I would ever work with you. I can’t even stand drinking with you. Your envy stinks, did you know it stinks? It stinks as much as your hate.”

  “Hate?”

  “It confused me once.”

  “You’re confused.”

  “But then I realized that you are full from head to toe with nothing but malcontent. You cannot help yourself. You even fight it, sometimes well. Enough for me to let you lead me astray.”

  “Fuck the gods, cat, we are working together.”

  “You work with no one. You had plans—”

  “To what, take the money?”

  “You said it, not I. Did you hear him say it, Fumeli?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shut that fucking ass mouth, boy.”

  “Leave us,” said the Leopard.

  “What did you do to him?” I said to Fumeli. “What did you do?”

  “Other than open my eyes? I don’t think Fumeli seeks credit. He’s not you, Tracker.”

  “You don’t even sound—”

  “Like myself?”

  “No. You don’t even sound like a man. You’re a boy whose toys Father took away.”

  “There’s no mirror in this room.”

  “What?”

  “Leave, Tracker.”

  “Fuck the gods and fuck this little shit.”

  I jumped at Fumeli. Leapt onto the bed and grabbed his neck. He slapped at me, the little bitch in him too weak to do anything else, and I squeezed. “I knew you consulted with witches,” I said. A big, black hairy mess knocked me down and I hit my head hard. The Leopard, full black and one with the dark, scratched my face with his paw. I grabbed at his neck skin, and we rolled over and over on the floor. I punched at him and missed. He ducked right down to my head and clamped his jaws on my neck. I couldn’t breathe. He clamped and swung his head, to break my neck.

  “Kwesi!”

  The Leopard dropped me. I wheezed air and coughed up spit.

  The Leopard growled at me, then roared, almost as loud as a lion. It was a “get out” kind of roar. Get out and don’t come back.

  I headed for the door, wiping my wet neck. Spit and a little blood.

  “Don’t be here tomorrow,” I said. “Neither of you.”

  “We don’t take orders from you,” Fumeli said. The Leopard paced by the window, still a Leopard.

  “Don’t be here tomorrow,” I said again.

  I went to the Ogo’s room.

  Bingingun. This is what I learned from the Kongori and why they hate nakedness. To wear only skin is to wear the mind of a child, the mind of the mad, or even the mind of the man with no role in society, even lower than usurers and trinket sellers, for even such as they have their use. Bingingun is how people of the North set a place for the dead among the living. Bingingun is the masquerade, drummers and dancers and singers of great oriki. They wear the aso oke cloth underneath, and this cloth is white with indigo stripes, and looks like that with which we clothe the dead. They wear net on the face and hands, for now they will be masquerade, not men with names. When the Bingingun spins and makes a whirlwind the ancestors possess them. They jump high as roofs.

  He who makes the costume is an amewa, a knower of beauty, for if you know the Kongori they view everything through the eye of what is beautiful. Not ugly, for that has no value, especially ugliness of character. And not too beautiful, for that is a skeleton in disguise. Bingingun is made from the best of fabrics, red, and pink, and gold, and blue, and silver, all trimmed in cowries and coins, for there is power in the beauty. In patterns, braids, sequins, tassels, and amulets with medicine. Bingingun in dance, Bingingun in march, make for transformation into the ancestors. All this I learned on my travels, for Juba has masquerade, but they are not Bingingun.

  I said all this to the Ogo because we followed a procession on the way to the house so that a man as tall as he would not look strange in the torchlight. He still looked strange. Five drummers in front setting the dance—three beating barrel drums, a fourth beating a double-skin bata, and the fifth beating four small bata tied together to make a sound pitched high like a crow call. Following the drummers came the Bingingun, among them the Ancestor King in royal robes and a cowrie veil, and the Trickster, whose robes turned inside out to another robe, and yet another robe, as the Bingingun all swirled and stomped to the drum, boom-boom-bakalak-bakalaka, bakalakalakalaka-boom-boom-boom. Ten and five of this clan shuffled to the left then stomped, then shuffled to the right and hopped. I said all this to the Ogo so that he would not start talking again of whom he had killed with his hands and how there is nothing in this world or the next like the sound of the crushing of skull. Sadogo’s face was lost to me in the dark, and as he stood taller than the torches, he waved his hands in the air with the Bingingun, marched when they marched, and stopped when they stopped.

  Here is truth. I did not know which house was Fumanguru’s, other than that it was in the Tarobe quarter, north of the Nimbe boundary, and that it would be almost hidden by massive growths of thornbush. I said, “Good Ogo, le
t us look. Let us walk street to street, and stop by which house burns no light and hides in branches that will prick and cut us.”

  Outside the fourth house Sadogo grabbed a torch from the wall. At the ninth house I smelled it, the fire stink of sulfur, still fresh in its scent after so many years. Most of the houses on this street stacked themselves tight beside each other, but this stood apart, now an island of thornbush. Larger than the other houses, from how it looked in the dark, the bush had grown wide and tall, reaching all the way up the front door.

  We went around the back. The Ogo was still quiet. He wore his gloves, not listening when I said they were no use against the dead. Look at how they failed to save you from Ogudu, I thought, but did not say. He tore away the branches until it was safe to climb. We jumped the back wall and landed in a thick blanket of grass. Wild grass left to grow tall, some of it to my waist. Omoluzu had without a doubt been here. Only plants that grew off the dead grew here.

  We stood in the courtyard, right beside the grain keep, with millet and sorghum gone sour from getting wet from many rains, caked with rat shit and fresh with rat pups. The house, a cluster of dwellings, five points like a star, was not what I expected in Kongor. Fumanguru was no Kongori. Sadogo placed the torch in the dirt and lit up the whole courtyard.

  “Spoiled meat, fresh shit, dead dog? I can’t tell,” the Ogo said.

  “All three, perhaps,” I said.

  I pointed to the first dwelling on the right. Sadogo nodded and followed. This first dwelling told me how I would find the rest. Everything left the way Omoluzu left it. Stools broken, jars crushed, tapestry ripped down, rugs and clothes torn and thrown about. I grabbed a blanket. Hidden in the smell of dirt and rain two boys, the youngest, perhaps, but the smell went as far as the wall and died. All the dead smell the same, but sometimes their living smell can take you to the point where they died.

  “Sadogo, how do the Kongori bury their dead?”

  “Not in the earth. In urns, too big for this room.”